


drunk

by soapyconnor



Series: Commissions [1]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Other, commission, drunk self reflection, idk what else to tag, self deprecation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 08:29:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soapyconnor/pseuds/soapyconnor
Summary: alastair reflects.





	drunk

**Author's Note:**

> this was a commission i did for somebody. you can request commissions from me at mclarcn.tumblr.com, but i would recommend to reach my commission info first (http://mclarcn.tumblr.com/post/175778156061/commission-info)

            The door slammed shut as Jack exited, and Al could see him storming down the porch towards his car. Jack angrily wiped at his eyes and sniffed, before he got in. Al watched him sit there and regain his senses before he drove off.

            Al laid back, not caring about the tears that had stained his face. He wiped them away and took a large swig of bourbon. _Stupid fucking Whiskey_ , he thought with a snarl, _Actin’ like he can control me and tell me what to do. Fuck him. I’m fucking happy whether he likes to believe it or not._

            **No. You’re not**.

            The thought startled Al. He looked around the room, body tense, and he found himself reaching towards his end table for his gun. “Who t’ fuck is there?” he snarled. “Jack? I told you t’ fuckin’ go and fuck off, ya fuckin’ cunt.” He threw the empty bourbon bottle towards the door, waiting for Jack to curse him out.

            . . . Nothing ever happened.

            He frowned and got up, stumbling to the door and yanking it open. Jack wasn’t there. He stumbled back inside and checked the entire house, cursing out Jack, telling him to just come out to the fuckin’ open.

            Startled, he realized that there was no one there. He was all alone.

            Slowly, he headed downstairs and stumbled as he reached the bottom step, falling and his forehead striking the edge of the coffee table. His forehead split open and he groaned, collapsing on the ground as blood gushed out of him.

            He sat up, blearily, and touched the one with his fingers. _Fuck_. . . He got up, and ignored the wound, heading to the couch and laying down, pressing his face against the couch, not caring that it was staining it with blood.

            He was alone. All alone, and for the first time since he could ever remember, the thought absolutely terrified him.

            He shook his head. _No. You can’t be scared. Just shut up. You can’t prove Jack right_.

            . . . **But what if Jack is right**?

            He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as the alcohol in his stomach refused to settle down. His veins began to feel like they were burning and he groaned, digging his nails into his stomach, trying desperately to calm himself down. But he couldn’t, the seed had been planted in his head and now it was never going to go away.

            Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and he removed his glasses, tossing them across the room. They landed against the wall and broke with a loud crunch. Pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes, he forced to take a deep breath.

            _Stop being a little fuckin’ bitch._

            He shook his head once more, shifting uncomfortably on the couch. He didn’t even know why he was trying to deny it anymore at this point, he knew the truth just as well as everyone else.

            _You’re a failure_.

            His body shuddered and tears began to fall out around his palms. He carefully took a deep breath and removed his hands from his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He wasn’t even deeply shaken by his thoughts—he was shaken by the fact that he was alone. How did this even fuckin’ happen to him? Sure, he wasn’t the _kindest_ person in the world, but he wasn’t the vilest. He was difficult to talk too but deep down even he knew that he could be a good person to talk too—Jack sticking with him this long certainly proved it.

            _What the fuck happened?_

_You’re lying to yourself._

As he laid there, he rolled onto his back and began to stare at the ceiling. He supposed his subconscious was right—he was lying to himself. He was fully aware of what he had done to cause all of this, he just . . . didn’t want to accept it.

            Besides, who would want to accept that they were a piece of shit?

            He shuddered and relaxed fully into the couch, staring through half-lidded eyes up at the ceiling. He knew he wasn’t the kindest of souls, but as he lay there, he hadn’t realized just how _unkind_ he was.

            He liked to blame it on the fact James was dead.

            He liked to blame it on his childhood.

            But it was all _him_.

            Really, who else was there to blame for the situation he found himself in? Jack had a bad childhood. Jack’s father did awful things to him, along the same lines of treatment Al had gotten. Jack’s wife died after being shot to death while pregnant, and _he’s_ still fine. He still manages to be kind and thoughtful.

            Hell, he put in the effort when no one else did. Al banged his head against the arm of the couch, frustrated. He was just a piece of shit and he just had to accept it. There was nothing more he could do.

            _You can do something. You can change, you piece of shit_.

            Well, that was true. He could change and become a better person, but he had already pushed everyone away. He had kicked everyone out of his life that he possibly could. He just . . . wasn’t a good person and wasn’t willing to change for anyone.

            Not even for the people he loved and cared about.

            His mind went to James and went to how he loved him so _dearly_. He had changed a bit, James had made him not so withdrawn and snappy towards people. Of course, he had his moments—everyone did—but he was _such_ a piece of shit.

            . . . Then the bastard had to go and die and all of it went down the shitter.

            Alastair let out a strangled cry and clawed at his throat, his stomach churning. He shook his head rather violently, to get the thoughts of his husband out of his head. If James was here today, he would _hate_ Alastair. If James was here today, he would have divorced him. If James was here today, he’d—

            He’d—

            He’d—

            He let out a broken cry, and he shoved a closed fist into his hand. He wasn’t a good man. He had allowed himself to get this way, to become just like his father, with his alcohol addiction and everything. The only good thing he had never done was not fucking _hit_ James or anyone he’d ever been with intimately and he _hated_ that that was one of the few things he could consider an ‘achievement’.

            He needed to change. But he _couldn’t_. Everyone whoever fucking cared about him was gone. He dug his nails in right above his hips. Even Jack was gone, and Jack was a hard bastard to piss off.

            . . . Maybe he just needed to give him some time . . . to cool off? Maybe Jack would help him . . .

            _No_ , he thought, angrily. _You need to do this yourself. You have no one who can help you because you fucking drove everyone away. You have to do this by yourself._

            Al knew this was just the alcohol talking. He’d wake up tomorrow morning and forget any of these revelations even happened, because that’s just how he was . . . He laid back against the couch, his arms wrapped tightly around one of the throw pillows.

            _You have to do this,_ he thought to himself as he began to doze off. _You have too. For James. For yourself_.

            The world began to go dark.

            _You **must.**_


End file.
